


New Biology

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, TAB 'verse, slowly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9676316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: One night in 221B Holmes and Watson talk.  But they are Victorians, so it is all very subtle.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First, let me apologise for not posting yesterday. Real life, in the form of a migraine, got in the way. Hopefully the promised blizzard does not mess me up tomorrow.
> 
> I love the TAB universe and for some reason this unpromising title seemed right for a story set there. Especially when I saw that the first chapter in the book was called The Potato: Master or Servant. I kid you not.
> 
> I always love hearing from you!

They did not talk about it for most of the evening.

Instead, the sitting room of 221B was its usual miasma of pipe smoke as the two men puffed away vigorously. The only sounds were the occasional turning of the pages of whatever downmarket newspaper Holmes was perusing at the moment, looking for gossip useful for the Work, and the scratching of Watson’s trusty pen across the pages of his journal.

Mrs Hudson and the boot-boy, Billy, had long since retired for the night and so the house was quiet. Only an occasional growler passed by below in Baker Street. They might well have been alone in a London that did not extend beyond this room. 

Occasionally, Watson would pause in his scribbling and gaze into the distance, contemplating a scene that only he could see.

All in all, it was terribly familiar and equally comforting.

But it could not last, of course. The subject was bound to arise at some point and, naturally enough, it would be Holmes who broached it first.

He cleared his throat quietly, alerting Watson that the peace of the evening was about to end. Watson thought that he was ready for the discussion.

“Watson, might I interrupt your musings for a moment to make an enquiry?”

“Of course,” Watson replied. He carefully wiped the pen nib on the blotter and then set it aside. “Enquire away, my dear Holmes.”

Holmes, in turn, folded the newspaper and sat up a bit more rigidly in the chair, indicating that the topic to be discussed was quite serious. “It has been a week since you last visited your marital home.”

“Well noticed, Mr Consulting Detective,” Watson teased lightly. “What might you deduce from that fact?” 

Holmes now looked uncharacteristically tentative. “I hesitate to make any conjectures about your private life in fear of over-stepping the bounds of our friendship.”  
At that, Watson could not help but chuckle. “Discretion makes an appearance after so many years?”

Holmes only blinked at him for a moment, but then said, “When you first arrived, your new portmanteau in hand, you said that Mrs Watson had gone to visit friends in Bath.”

“As indeed she had. The Murrays, in point of fact.”

“But to my knowledge, she returned home several days ago.” Holmes did not bother to explain just how he had come by that knowledge. “Yet here you remain.”

“Yes. Here I remain.” Watson rose from his place at the writing desk and went to pour them each a brandy. He handed one snifter to Holmes and then took his usual place in the comfortable armchair opposite the detective. “There is no real mystery here. You yourself, on the day that Mary came here posing at a client, recognised that all was not blissful within the Watson household.”

Realisation crossed Holmes’ face. “Ah, now I understand. You and your wife are apart until certain issues can be resolved and domestic tranquillity re-established. It is my belief that such temporary separations are not uncommon amongst the married of a certain class.”

Watson sipped the brandy, briefly savouring the deep fruity flavour. “You are quite correct, as far as that goes.”

Holmes also swallowed some brandy. “As far as it goes?”

“In point of fact, Mary and I have resolved all the issues and reached one inescapable conclusion.”

Holmes only nodded wisely.

Probably Watson was the only person [well, save Mycroft Holmes probably] who would have seen that the wise nod was only a cover for the fact that the genius really had no idea what any of that meant. The half-smile Watson gave him was blatantly fond.

Finally, Watson sighed. “Mary and I have decided that our best course of action is to separate. Permanently. Whether or not we divorce will be a decision made later. It is complicated, as you well know.” He had a secret hope that when that day came, he might seek the help of the seemingly all-powerful Mycroft Holmes to smooth the way. But now was not the time to mention that.

Holmes was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he stood and went to the window, gazing down at Baker Street. “Does this unfortunate turn of events owe anything to the fact that you frequently associate with a companion of dubious morals?”

Surprisingly, Watson gave a bark of laughter. “Indisputably,” he said then.

Holmes drank brandy and still watched the street below. “If my calls upon your time and company have been excessive, I can only apologise.”

“If fault there is, my dear Holmes, it must lie with the man who answered each one of those calls with alacrity. I chose where I wanted to be. I am still choosing.”

“But, John,” Holmes said, finally turning to look at him. “You love her.”

Watson emptied his snifter, set it down, and stood. He walked over to the window, standing next to Holmes. “After a fashion, yes, I love her. At least, I love the idea of a marriage and a proper gentleman’s household.”

Holmes arched a brow at him, as if to ask a question.

“But I love something else more. That is my life here in Baker Street. The work. The adventures.” He paused before adding, “My companion of dubious morals.”

Then was a long silence. Holmes watched as a dog meandered across the road, no doubt heading for its home after a night of doing whatever dogs did when they gathered in the nearby park.

“ John, I fear we are wandering into a landscape that is alien to me,” he said in an almost whisper.

Watson gave him a smile. “Dark alleyways and unknown paths have never frightened us before, have they?” He dared a bit more, resting a hand lightly on Holmes’ bicep. “We will figure it out, my dear friend.” Then he turned brisk. “Now I am for bed. I promised to take morning surgery hours for Brown tomorrow.”

He started towards the stairs that lead to his room.

Still staring out the window, Holmes spoke. “Perhaps when you are free of that obligation, we might take luncheon at Simpson’s, if that sounds acceptable to you?”

“That sounds quite acceptable,” Watson said, pausing.

“You do not mind, then, that I am a man out of his time?” Holmes said and there was no mistaking his meaning.

Watson put one foot on the first stair before speaking. “I will travel time with you,” he said. “Always. Wherever the journey takes us. That is our way, is it not? Two travellers resolutely facing the world arm in arm?”

 

Watson was in bed, tired, but restless, when the first strains of violin music floated up the stairs towards him. He listened to the slightly melancholy tune and did not sleep.

Much later, he heard soft footsteps just outside his door.

Then, a few minutes later, those same footsteps went back down the stairs.

Watson did not fret. This was unprecedented, different, a whole new geography, an entirely unexplored science, and it would take time.

Luncheon at Simpson’s would be an excellent start.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: New Biology edited by M.L. Johnson and Michael Abercrombie


End file.
